Stargazing
by In Dreams
Summary: Hermione takes up stargazing when she returns to Hogwarts for her eighth year. But she ends up watching a constellation of a far different sort.
1. Grief

**Author's Note:** Hello. This is a short three-part angsty, eighth year mini-fic. It is complete and will be shared in three installments.

The many different genres and re-writes this story went through over the last few months was almost comical. But this was the piece that left my heart and so I hope you enjoy.

 **Warning:** This story contains the following, to various extents: angst, minor character death, excessive alcohol consumption, allusions to potions abuse, PTSD and sexual content, including smut. Please consider this your warning for the entirety of this fic.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

Hermione was alone for the first time in seven years. She struggled to recall the last time her life had been so uneventful. It must have been the early months of her first year, _before_ she had befriended Harry Potter.

Not that she begrudged him the path _that_ friendship had led her down and she certainly wouldn't have traded it for anything although there was a certain simplistic peace behind _not_ being at war.

She hadn't been surprised that Harry and Ron had opted not to return to Hogwarts, instead entering straight into Auror training. And if she was honest, it was probably for the best that she and Ron weren't around one another right now, given the awkward way they had left things. Though they had shared one heated kiss in a moment fraught with tension and emotion, Hermione had not found it to be a conducive start to a relationship.

If nothing else, it had finally enlightened Hermione to the fact that whatever feelings she had thought she had for Ron were simply the result of a youthful crush, developed over time through a kinship of the many things they had faced together. A crush that, it seemed, had finally dissipated following the end of the war.

The only problem was that Ron had seen it another way entirely and, when Hermione had told him she wasn't interested, he had taken it as a supreme kick to his ego and made more of a fuss than had been strictly necessary.

Beyond that, Hermione had struggled deeply with her search for a way to restore her parents' memories. Everything she had read, the healers she had spoken to, all suggested it was unlikely and any attempts could cause permanent damage. The truth had crushed Hermione like a boulder to the chest.

Needless to say, being back at Hogwarts was duly appreciated, if for no reason other than a distraction. She had missed her favourite reading chair, tucked away by the fire in a private alcove of the library.

Hermione had initially been concerned that the school would be unable to open again so soon following the Battle of Hogwarts, but it seemed the ancient, unexplained magic deep within the castle had felt the need to re-open for students that September, and so it had.

Given that Hermione wasn't technically a seventh year, she hadn't been offered the Head Girl position but she found herself more than fine without the extra responsibility. She _had_ been offered Prefect, however, which she had accepted due to her great love for the baths in the Prefects' bathroom. As well, she had been given her own private room off the common room of Gryffindor Tower which was extremely nice.

Hermione had been surprised how few students from her year had returned to Hogwarts. Aside from her and Neville in Gryffindor, there had been a few Ravenclaws, two Hufflepuffs and two Slytherins.

There was something oddly comforting knowing that she wasn't the only student present that had been significantly involved in the war, but the experiences even Neville, Ginny and Luna had faced were so different from her own.

The other benefit to having her own dorm was that, when the nightmares relentlessly plagued Hermione, more often than not, she wasn't apt to wake any of her fellow lions.

Harry had given Hermione the Marauder's Map when he learned she was returning to Hogwarts, citing she would have more use for it than he would. At first, Hermione hadn't intended to sneak around out of bed in the early hours, but after the first month it was remarkable how suddenly breaking a few school rules didn't feel so significant, when considered in the context that the year before at the same time she had been on the run for her life.

Beyond that, when the nightmares grew especially wearisome and staying in her room became stifling, the wide, cavernous hallways with their quiet darkness became oddly comforting.

* * *

After a few weeks of being back at Hogwarts castle, Hermione's life revolved around timetables and routines once more. Eighth years attended classes with seventh years and Hermione was always among the first seated. She studied in the library, ate most of her meals in the Great Hall, attended Quidditch matches and traveled to Hogsmeade on occasion. She suspected it was the experience Hogwarts might have been all along, had there been no war.

It was a welcome relief that the most stressful part of school was classwork and exams.

Her morning routine became like clockwork; she would rise early, prepare herself for the day and walk down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Invariably, the only other students in her year awake at that time were Malfoy and Nott, the two returning Slytherin students.

Hermione had decided she would do her best to put old house rivalries behind her. She had attended both of their trials following the end of the war and knew it was probationary for them to complete their schooling. She remained civil although she kept out of their way and they returned the gesture. Just the thought of Malfoy some days caused shivers to run the length of her spine; the memories of being at Malfoy Manor were still fresh.

"Good morning, Firenze," Hermione commented as she walked past the centaur on her way to classes one morning. "How are you today?"

"I am of a complex mind," Firenze replied slowly. "Saturn has entered retrograde and the winds speak of unseasonable warmth."

"Oh?" Hermione asked. "Perhaps I will observe it tonight."

"You should," Firenze said, staring at her. "It will serve you well."

Hermione shook her head as she walked off. The centaur had grown on her during her time back at the castle, and while she still considered divination to be utter bollocks and no longer took the class, she had developed a casual interest in astronomy during her late night wanderings. There was something about the intricate focus of a telescope, the black silence of a night sky dotted with stars, that soothed her soul.

Hermione had begun to notice a certain restlessness within herself, especially during her classes and she often found her day dragging on when that had never been the case before. So it was with a light heart that she left her last class of the day, detouring to her room in Gryffindor Tower to drop off her books before dinner.

Her evening went as usual; dinner with Neville and Ginny, where they were joined by Luna. After leaving the library she retired to her room to read a book before turning in for the night, hoping as always that she might find some rest.

But of course, as had grown common, sleep did not come easily and it did not linger. Wandering the halls, the Marauder's Map clutched tightly in one hand, her _lumos_ 'd wand in the other, Hermione was suddenly reminded of Firenze's words at breakfast.

She made her way to one of the tallest towers – she had been unable to bring herself to use the Astronomy Tower – and began adjusting the telescope which she had assembled and stored there some weeks ago. As she carefully fiddled with the lens, aligning it just so, she was grateful for the serenity of it.

Focusing and turning the telescope so that she might observe Saturn, Hermione sank into her task, the silence stark and absolute around her and a smile playing about her lips. She admired the planet and its rings for a long while.

As she was about to return to her dorm, content with her observations, an object flashed through her lens that caused her to jump. Adjusting her distance, she tried to locate the object again, her heart racing from the surprise of it.

She caught sight of it once more, focusing her telescope to see the object was merely someone riding a broom. While it seemed anti-climactic and mundane, Hermione had to wonder why someone was riding a broom at half two in the morning. And it wasn't just anyone – she would recognize that shock of platinum blond hair anywhere.

Hermione swallowed heavily and glanced around her, as if someone were watching, and she zoomed in even closer. Malfoy was drifting lazily on the broom, one-handed, head and shoulders slouched forward, staring listlessly down at the handle of the broomstick.

Against her better judgement, she followed his movement as he descended, slow and shallow, to the ground, stumbling gracelessly from the broom as his feet met the tall grasses on the outskirts of the forest.

Perhaps he was drunk? She wouldn't put it past him. But there was something altogether sober – and sobering – about his movements.

He took a few slow steps towards the forest, so without his usual aristocratic sense of purpose, the broom slipping from his loose fingers and falling from his grip. His back was to her now, and Hermione decided she really ought to stop watching but she couldn't quite comprehend the situation and found herself oddly fixated.

He took another step, falling into the trunk of a sturdy aspen with one shoulder in a sort of lifeless collapse. His head was still bent, facing the ground and Hermione imagined his eyes to be closed.

She felt as if she were intruding on something extremely personal.

He stayed there for a long while and Hermione lost track of time as she held her breath, caught in the moment. It was only when she looked close – and she might have even imagined it, faint as it was – that she realized he seemed to be shaking.

It might have been ten minutes or an hour, but he turned his back to the tree, sliding down the length of it to the cold, sparsely vegetated ground. Hermione couldn't see his face as he dropped his head to his bent knees, arms tossed casually across them.

Hermione realized, as she continued to violate his privacy in the worst way, she had never seen him even remotely vulnerable. He had always simply been Draco Malfoy, Slytherin, pureblood prince, with the obnoxious swagger and the cutting remarks aplenty. Somehow she had never even imagined him to have a vulnerable side.

Even after Harry had shared with her the happenings of that dreadful night atop the Astronomy Tower, how Malfoy had been unable, or unwilling, to go through with his appointed mission, Hermione had never quite imagined him to struggle with anything.

Obviously, she had been wrong.

Maybe she had just never spared any time to think of Draco Malfoy because he had never treated her in a way that merited any time spent. But she found, suddenly, her thoughts racing.

He had been forced into becoming a Death Eater at only sixteen and given an impossible task. His family had played unwilling host to Voldemort inside their ancestral manor and who _knows_ what he might have experienced during that time. His parents had fought on the losing side of a war and Malfoy had been dragged into the thick of it as well. His father was now in Azkaban and his mother trapped within the very same manor on house arrest – and the youngest Malfoy had almost landed in Azkaban himself.

Had she so severely underestimated what he had been through – what he was struggling with – simply because he hadn't been on her side and so he didn't matter?

She briefly tried to place herself in his shoes. If she had been born into his family, a pureblood, under the thumb of his parents, had grown up listening to the prejudiced rhetoric he had undoubtedly heard, would she have turned out so much differently?

She continued to watch him though her eyes were now glazed, her mind rampant with these thoughts, tempered with a creeping sort of doubt. Was she so cold, so self-righteous that she hadn't ever considered what he must be going through? All because a silly house rivalry had left her with a bad impression?

So caught up was she that Hermione almost didn't notice he had stood, gathered his broom, and began to drag himself with leaden feet back towards the school.

Feeling a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold breeze coming into the tower, Hermione tucked her telescope back into its storage and activated the Marauder's Map once more. Though it was likely Malfoy would be headed to the dungeons, she did _not_ want to accidentally cross his path.

After a hurried and uneventful trip back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione sunk back beneath her covers, falling asleep with relative ease and she dreamt of great snakes and falling chandeliers and a frosty forest at dawn.

* * *

Hermione began to hear the rumours the next morning. Lucius Malfoy was dead. She had already heard a variety of accounts through breakfast by the time the morning post arrived. An argument with another inmate; an altercation with a guard. The new guards of Azkaban had proven themselves to be far worse than the Dementors had been and it had become a common occurrence.

But the _Daily Prophet_ confirmed the rumours. It was sparse on details but it had happened the evening before within the confines of the prison.

Hermione unwittingly glanced to the Slytherin table as she chewed a slice of toast that had suddenly lost its flavour. Malfoy was not in attendance at breakfast, though she wasn't particularly surprised. While she felt no great loss at the death of Lucius Malfoy, she knew her schoolyard rival had always looked up to his father.

Though she had to wonder whether things had changed over the course of the war.

He was not in potions that morning, nor was he in arithmancy that afternoon. Hermione found herself wondering why she was so attentive to Malfoy's class attendance and the only conclusion she could make was because of what she had observed the night before. The loss of his father certainly explained Malfoy's late night ride and his countenance following.

But she had never been particularly concerned with Malfoy _or_ what he had faced and she supposed the only reason why she cared now was the revelations she had reached in that tower.

That Malfoy must have struggled so much more than she ever imagined.

She was surprised, at the end of the day, to see Malfoy at dinner, staring blandly into his mostly untouched plate, his expression neutral.

While some part of her debated the idea of approaching him, she quickly stopped those thoughts before they could go too far. She and Malfoy had said next to nothing to one another all year and there was no reason for that to change now, when she still had nothing valid to say to him. He most certainly would not want her condolences.

She averted her gaze as Nott attempted to engage Malfoy in conversation and the blond looked up from his plate to his dark-haired friend, uttering a response that she could not hear. The last thing she wanted was for him to notice her staring.

Hermione spent the evening in the Gryffindor common room, watching Neville and Ginny play a heated match of Exploding Snap, attempting to read a book. Finally she gave up, setting the book aside, too many unwelcome thoughts rampant through her mind.

When she found herself wandering the corridors after hours, as usual, she fought a failing battle with herself and wondered whether Malfoy might be flying again. As her feet absently carried her towards the same tower, she activated the Maurader's Map.

Cursing herself as her eyes scanned the small print, Hermione noted that while he was inside the castle, he was not in the Slytherin dorms but rather a small classroom in the dungeons along the potions hallway.

She halted in her walking, wondering if she should perhaps see what he was doing. The answer came back, instant and resounding: of course she shouldn't. She had no business even _looking_ for Malfoy. They were not friends, they had never even been acquaintances and she ought to go straight back to her dorm before she did something idiotic.

She returned to her dorm, but did not manage any more sleep.

* * *

Over the rest of the week, Hermione caught herself observing the blond Slytherin far more often than she would have liked. He had returned to classes, taking notes as usual; he kept to his meals in the Great Hall, chatting idly with Nott. But she hadn't heard him so much as speak, not in class nor the hallways in between. Once she had caught his eye and before she averted her gaze, embarrassed, he had simply stared at her, his brow furrowed a little. He looked empty.

He had been withdrawn from potions on Thursday by a Ministry official and did not return through the duration of the class. When she next saw him, he had been fiddling with a heavy signet ring that she had never noticed before and he looked unfamiliar with.

The Ministry official, then, had presumably been there to grant Malfoy his father's last will and testament. She wondered what that meant for him, with Narcissa on house arrest. Whether he was now in charge of the household and the family vault.

Not that she had any place in wondering such things. The sordid politics of pureblood households went back incredibly far and Hermione had never had an express interest in such things until she found herself observing the Malfoy heir far too extensively.

Determining she really ought to forget about it all, Hermione decided to avoid him by any means necessary until this strange and idle habit dissipated.

But it had already become so ingrained into her routine and Hermione found it almost impossible to shake. She could not force her eyes away from watching him, or her mind from dissecting everything he did.


	2. Manifestation

**Author's Note:** Welcome to part two of three of Stargazing. I appreciate the feedback on the first chapter, and thanks so much for reading! :)

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

As she rose from her bed two nights later, wide awake and cursing herself, Hermione dressed quickly in jeans and a jumper and crept out of Gryffindor Tower, Marauder's Map in hand.

As she began to walk and activated the map, she realized Malfoy was awake as well. Swallowing anxiously, she walked in the direction where he was, clenching her wand tightly before her to follow its lit tip.

His dot on the map was wholly stationary, inside what she recognized to be the Arithmancy classroom.

Without a clue of what she would say to him, Hermione de-activated and pocketed the map and her wand, drying her damp hands on her jeans. She nudged the door open and crept into the room.

Malfoy's back was to her, seated atop a workbench, his feet hanging loosely above the floor. Moonlight through the window glinted off his pale hair, casting it in silver. He didn't so much as shift when she walked in.

"What are you doing here?" he drawled, his voice low. Hermione could now see he held a bottle as he took a long swig. She started when he spoke, unsure whether or not he knew it was her. He set the bottle on the table beside him, exhaling heavily. "Granger."

"I don't know," she breathed, taking a tentative step into the room. "I just… I thought you were here."

He took another long pull from the bottle, then ran a hand through his hair. If any part of the situation confused him, he didn't say.

"Are you going to come in or just stand there?" he murmured, his voice slurred.

Her feet carried her, as if of their own accord, to the table where he sat. His expression was blank, his eyes heavily lidded, jaw clenched. He held the bottle out to her; an offering.

"How much have you had?" she asked, quietly as if not to disturb the heavy silence blanketing the room. He shrugged a shoulder.

"Dunno. Keeps refilling itself," he said. "Sit, Granger, or leave."

She sat.

"Malfoy, are you alright?" she asked with a sidelong glance to her unlikely companion.

He snickered. He took another look chug from the bottle then slowly shook his head.

"I'm sorry about your father," she breathed.

"No you aren't," he said, with the barest hint of a smirk, "but I appreciate the sentiment."

"No," she agreed softly. "Not for who he was, but for that he was your father."

His eyes flickered to her for a brief moment, as if in surprise. Those grey eyes, usually narrowed in her direction, filled with malice and spite, were haunted. _So_ haunted.

He set the bottle down between them. After a brief hesitation, Hermione took a swig, feeling the familiar burn of Firewhisky race along her throat.

"Why are you here, Granger?" he murmured, gazing at the ground. He rubbed a hand over his face, the action clumsy and awkward with drunkenness. "I know it isn't to lament my late father."

"Maybe I just wanted you to know you aren't alone," she whispered.

He turned his head to look at her and his blond hair fell loose in his eyes. His brow furrowed as he frowned.

"I _am_ alone, Granger," he countered. "Do you know what it's like?"

"Yes," she breathed, not daring to look at him.

"Okay," was all he said. He took another drink then handed her the bottle. She took a swig and handed it back.

They sat like that in silence for what felt like hours but could only have been a handful of minutes. Hermione gazed through the window, the bright moon casting its pale light across them.

"I can't explain it," he finally intoned, setting the bottle down. "He made _every_ wrong decision. I thought I hated him for it. But knowing he's gone…"

He trailed off, taking another long drink from the bottle. Hermione didn't respond, feeling her own heavy breathing, in and out.

"Now that he's gone," Malfoy continued after a moment, "I can't imagine never seeing him again, do you know what I mean? Because with each of those terrible fucking decisions, he _thought_ he was doing right by his family."

"Misguided," Hermione gasped, "I know exactly what you mean."

"So fucking misguided," he said.

When Hermione chanced to look over at him, whether it was a trick of the light, she couldn't be sure – but it almost looked as if a solitary tear track graced his pale cheekbone.

"I didn't know your parents died, Granger," he said softly, apologetically.

"They didn't," she said. Her gaze flickered to his. "I altered their memories and removed myself from their knowledge. They live in Australia now. They've just had a daughter."

Hermione was surprised at the evenness in her tone.

Malfoy turned his head to look at her directly for the first time. His brow furrowed, his expression incredulous.

"You did that?" he asked.

"I hoped to do right by them, too," she breathed, with a hint of a wry smile. "I didn't want them pulled into the war. Fucking misguided."

"Fucking misguided," he repeated, smirking. "I'm sorry that you lost your parents, Granger. That must have been difficult."

"It was," she swallowed. Her eyes prickled with blurry moisture but she blinked it away.

He thrust the bottle into her grasp and she took a long pull, steadying her nerves.

"You aren't alone," he said, echoing her earlier sentiment. His head dropped forward as he took the bottle back, his disheveled blond hair falling forward in soft tendrils.

Vaguely, Hermione wondered if he would even remember this conversation. For some reason, the thought that he might not made her sad.

He blindly reached back to set the bottle down, his hand unintentionally brushing hers where it sat on the table. But to Hermione's surprise he didn't flinch or withdraw his hand. Instead his fingers traced the back of her hand again, and his hand lifted to rest on hers, giving it a squeeze.

A breath caught in her throat as Hermione felt in every fibre of her being, his cold grip, wrapped around her hand. It was such a simple touch but the pounding of her heart vibrated in her ears.

His hand shifted, his fingers entwining seamlessly with hers and still he did not look up. Hermione wondered again how much he'd had to drink.

"You should go, Granger," he murmured, even as his hand held firm to hers, carding his fingers through his hair with the other. After a heavy, tense beat, he released her hand, grasping the bottle of Firewhisky once more and chugging from it. "It's late."

"It was already late when I got here," she replied. Malfoy loosed a single bark of cold laughter.

"Touché," he said.

But he dropped down the short distance from the table, his feet hitting the floor unsteadily as he landed a hand on the table for support. He picked up the bottle and stumbled to the door.

"Can you make it back?" she asked, belatedly following him from the room. "Should I walk with you?"

"No," he clipped, pausing to lean on the threshold. "Go back to your tower, Granger."

Then he straightened and was gone.

* * *

Hermione found no rest that night. She tossed and laid awake and what little sleep she did manage was riddled with haunted grey eyes.

When she dragged herself to the Great Hall for breakfast the following morning – thankfully it was Sunday – she found her disposition contrary to the upbeat atmosphere at the Gryffindor table.

Idly tuning out the conversations around her, her thoughts and gaze drifted to the table across the hall, where she was met with a pair of stormy eyes watching her.

Any curiosity she had about whether or not he would remember their conversation instantly evaporated. Because that tumultuous, beautiful gaze told Hermione she was not alone.

* * *

The next time Hermione saw him, not counting in their classes, where he was attentive as always, was several nights later. He was alone in an old classroom that, in Hermione's recollection, had never been used.

The first thing she noticed when she opened the door was music. A haunting, slow, beautiful melody.

Malfoy did not look up, as if he was expecting her. If he wondered how she was finding him he didn't ask. Hesitantly, Hermione took a seat on the piano bench beside him.

The piano itself was glorious; a glossy black grand piano, its soft white keys lit only by moonlight. His fingers danced gracefully and fluidly over the keys, playing the mournful tune with ease and a sort of emotion Hermione suspected he could not express through words alone.

"I didn't know there was a piano in the castle," she breathed, afraid to interrupt.

"Magic, Granger," he murmured, his eyelids fluttering.

Hermione watched, transfixed, as he played, his long fingers carrying themselves across the keys as if made for it.

"How long have you played?" she asked softly.

"I learned as a child," he shrugged, "but when my parents stopped providing lessons I kept playing and learning on my own."

"It's lovely," she whispered, "what are you playing?"

"This is Chopin, Granger," he said, his expression neutral as he played.

"A Muggle composer?" she questioned, turning to him. He merely raised an eyebrow.

"Beautiful music is beautiful music," he murmured.

The piece came to a close as his fingers landed the final few notes. He let the momentary silence wash over him, hands suspended over the keys, before he broke into a new piece, one that also spoke of melancholy and a deep sadness.

"I know this one," Hermione said softly.

"This one is well known," he confirmed, glancing at her. "The first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata."

"You play so well," she breathed. He bowed his head in gratitude, his fingers never ceasing their relentless dance across the keys. "Do you come here and play often?"

"Sometimes when I can't sleep," he replied, a smirk slipping to his features. "Which would probably be considered often, yes."

She fell silent as he played through the piece and jumped ahead into the third movement, his fingers flying almost incomprehensibly fast, the tone significantly more upbeat.

"Now you'll think I'm just showing off," he murmured with a trace of a smile, letting his hands drop.

The sudden silence fell over the room like a thick blanket and Hermione fought a shiver as he turned to face her.

"Why do you seek me out, Granger?" he murmured, meeting her eyes. "Do you like to see me struggle?"

"I told you," she breathed, looking away from his intense gaze, "you're not alone."

"Maybe it's that _you_ feel alone, dearest Granger," he said, matching her tone. He looked away. "And you think that seeing me will make you feel less so. But it won't be good for you."

She lifted her gaze to his once more. "I know."

While he wasn't drinking this time, she wasn't sure he was entirely sober. A subtle glaze to his eyes caused a shiver to run the length of her spine. He lifted a leg over the piano bench, facing her. Hermione suddenly realized how close he was.

"You shouldn't want to be my friend, if that's what this is… and if it's something more you want, you shouldn't want that either."

His tone was sensuous, alluring. Hermione blinked, her mouth dry.

"I don't know what it is," she admitted. She wondered if he _had_ been drinking.

"If you don't know, you should most certainly leave," he said, turning away from her.

"I'm not frightened of you, Malfoy," Hermione said, frowning. He laughed coldly, glancing at her again, a wicked smirk on his features.

"I frighten even myself some days," he said wryly.

"You aren't as bad as you tell yourself you are," she said, more bravely than she felt. A strange, sad amusement played itself across his face.

"What would you do, Granger," he breathed, gazing at her, "if I kissed you?"

He buried his face in the hollow of her throat, his breath sliding across her skin. Hermione's entire body seized and she froze, eyes wide, heart racing.

"What would you do if I _ravaged_ you?" His whispered words ghosted across her skin, felt more than heard. "What would you do…" he lifted a hand to twist absently in her curls. "If I _fucked_ you against that wall, so hard, so _good_ , you screamed yourself hoarse on my name."

A breath caught in her throat as Hermione sat, frozen, her core clenching tightly at his words. She could find no response.

After a long beat he drew back, turning away from her. "Good night, Granger."

"You can't – just –" she spluttered, torn between fear, indignance and arousal. He raised an eyebrow but stared at the piano.

"I can't what, Granger?" he snapped. "I can't warn you to keep your distance?"

"I'm trying to help–"

"I never asked for your help," he sneered. " _You_ decided to follow me around."

"Are you drunk?" she asked, blinking.

"No, I'm not drunk," he scoffed, though there was something hesitant in his tone.

"Then what?" Hermione breathed, staring at him, her chin low. "Did you take a potion or something?"

"I don't require your self-righteous fucking judgement, Granger," he murmured, the heat gone from his voice as quickly as it had come, fading into a soft sort of defeat.

He lifted a hand and his fingers hovered above the keys, pressing a few at random.

"Fine," Hermione said. "I won't bother you again."

She stood and left the room. He didn't look up.

* * *

Hermione couldn't shake the two encounters with Malfoy. The first when he had been so haunted – and the second, which was harder to place.

If she was honest, what bothered her the most was the fact that they had almost connected with one another. They had actually been able to talk, even if just barely. Until he had brushed it all away. Hermione wasn't certain why that bothered her so much.

She did her best to ignore him, in classes, at meals, in the hallways. To push those words, breathed against her throat, to the back of her mind; to bury them entirely. To ignore the feelings, delicious though they were, that stirred in her being when she thought of them.

But in her dreams he returned, those stormy grey eyes and those soft sensual whisperings, though his words were enticing rather than threatening.

Too many times she jolted awake, her mind racing and heart pounding, with an almost painful, insatiable desire settled deep within her core.

And yet, she ignored him. She did not watch the Map for him. She pushed Draco Malfoy from her conscious mind entirely.

* * *

It had been two weeks since Hermione last spoke to Malfoy. He hadn't said so much as one word to her; he stared at her with only disdain.

Hermione left her final class of the day and turned the corner toward Gryffindor Tower when she nearly walked into Malfoy. He didn't flinch; he merely gazed down at her, an eyebrow raised.

"Granger."

"Malfoy." Hermione made to walk around him when he stopped her, his touch on her arm surprisingly light. "Excuse me."

"Walk with me."

He ducked down a narrow, infrequently used hallway. Hermione hesitated then followed him, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"You stopped looking for me," he said without turning to her.

Hermione gaped at him and nearly stopped walking. "You told me to leave you alone."

"No, I didn't," he said petulantly, "I told you I didn't need your help."

"Close enough," she huffed, glaring at him.

"Look," he murmured, turning to face her, "I shouldn't have said those things. I appreciated you being there. In case you hadn't noticed, I haven't exactly been completely… put together, lately."

"You think?" she retorted, raising an eyebrow. "You need to decide what you want, Malfoy."

"I know what I want," he said quietly. Hermione glanced at him, her expression tense. He sighed and continued walking. "I want to _not_ feel so fucking alone. The only times I haven't felt alone in _years_ were those two nights."

"I told you, you didn't have to be alone," she breathed. "You threw it back in my face."

"I know," he said, his jaw clenching. "Just… come tonight? I'll stay sober. I've been working on something new."

Hermione turned to him warily; his grey eyes were imploring her. They were even more beautiful in real life than in her dreams; up close she could see the bright flecks of silver in his irises.

"Maybe," she whispered.

"Okay," he offered her half a smile, lacking any hint of malice. "I hope you do."

Hermione shuddered as he walked off, all of her nerve endings wide awake.

* * *

Despite every bone in her body telling her not to go, Hermione found herself out of bed and wandering the corridors, shortly after midnight that night.

He was in the same room as the last time, where he had somehow transfigured or conjured that beautiful piano. He was already playing when Hermione slid onto the bench beside him, a gorgeous, melodic song.

"This is a piece composed by Schubert," he murmured by way of greeting.

"It's beautiful," Hermione replied.

"You came," he stated, glancing at her with a smirk.

"I had to hear your latest masterpiece, didn't I?" she breathed.

"I do it no justice," he said, head down, "not yet, anyway. I'm still working at it."

As if on cue, his fingers stumbled over the wrong keys. He repeated the passage several times before getting it right and moving on. He rolled his eyes mockingly.

But to Hermione, the fact that he was willing to play a song he didn't have perfected in front of her, flaws and all, showed her far more than the most beautiful piece could have. She watched in silence, breathless, as he played through the piece. Then he moved softly into another, one that he was obviously much more familiar with.

"I meant what I said earlier," he said softly, his eyes fluttering shut, absorbed in the music. "I appreciate your company. Only, I was an arse about it before."

"So you didn't mean any of it," Hermione surmised, a wry smile slipping to her features.

"I meant some of it," he said, glancing sidelong at her. "It _would_ be in your best interests to keep a healthy distance from me, former Death Eater and all. But you've fought in a war; you can make your own decisions about that."

"And I have," she tilted her head, as if indicating her presence.

She wanted to ask about the other things he had said but she didn't have the nerve. Whether he actually wanted to kiss and ravage and fuck her into the wall.

She wasn't entirely certain she wanted to the answer to that question.

"What is it that _you_ want, Granger?" he asked, ceasing in his playing.

"I want to know you," she said honestly. He stared at her for a long moment.

"I'm not much worth knowing." She could tell by the set of his jaw that he believed it.

"I don't know about that," Hermione murmured, plucking her fingers over the keys of the piano absently. Summoning her bravery, she asked, "can you teach me?"

"The piano?" he questioned, looking surprised. "Do you know how to read music?"

"No," she said, pressing two keys at once experimentally. "My father used to play the cello and as a girl, I wanted to learn too. But after I got my Hogwarts letter I was always away for too long at a time to take lessons."

"I doubt I'd be a very good teacher," he admitted. A breath caught in Hermione's throat when he casually set a hand on her leg beside his, his thumb rubbing absent circles. He glanced at her, his expression betraying nothing. "I suppose I could try."

"I would appreciate it," she breathed, avoiding his gaze, even as she was unable to think of anything but his hand on her thigh.

"Well," he began, running his other hand through his hair. With an uncertain sort of shrug, he pressed a single key. "We'll begin here. This is C."

* * *

 **A/N:** For any piano nerds like me, the referenced pieces Draco plays are as follows:  
Chopin's Nocturne Op. 72, No. 1; Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata (No. 14, Op. 27, No. 2) Movements 1 and 3; Schubert's Ave Maria, arr. Liszt.


	3. Resolution

**Author's Note:** The third and final part of Stargazing. I hope you've enjoyed this short story. Thanks so much for reading xoxo

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

At first, Hermione wondered when he slept. But over the following months the answer became apparent: almost never.

She knew he was plagued with nightmares, too. She didn't ask what they were about – partly because she could guess and partly because she didn't want to know. She knew he rarely slept because he couldn't find the peace to.

On the good nights, he played beautiful music for her or taught her lessons. Octaves and scales and arpeggios. Sometimes she stopped by the room on her own to practice.

On the bad nights, she would find him in an empty classroom, half drowned in a bottle. It was as if he didn't want to darken the room where he kept the piano he loved to play, with those memories he couldn't escape. He would clutch her hand like a lifeline and gaze at her, his ragged breathing harshly expelled, mingling with hers.

And sometimes, when she knew he was ready to break and he needed her to hold him together, she did just that.

She could see in his eyes the words he couldn't express; the gratitude that she didn't leave him to face his demons alone.

On the nights in between, they would talk.

Of classes and Quidditch; of how immature they had been to one another as adolescents; sometimes even of the war. Malfoy would ask about her Muggle childhood and tell her about his aristocratic upbringing. He regaled her with tales of Lucius when he had been a boy; how his father hadn't always been so cold. Hermione shared how she had felt when she learned she was a witch.

He listened like what she had to say was everything that had ever mattered. He laughed and sometimes he smiled and he absently drew patterns over her clothes or her skin with his fingertips, as if physical contact gave him the energy he so needed, as if it grounded him. Maybe it did.

Sometimes her presence was enough for him to drift off into a fitful sleep and they would awake early the following morning, face to face, limbs entangled on a transfigured couch.

And Hermione, for her part, savoured his company, because he understood her better than she ever could have imagined. Because the way his eyes lit up when she walked in, whether a good night or bad, assured her she wasn't alone.

* * *

As the first hints of spring broke over Hogwarts castle and the air became mild and fresh, Hermione climbed the steps to the owlery, to see the view which overlooked the forest just so.

She looked up in surprise at the flash of platinum as Malfoy joined her at the large opening in the stone wall. He gestured in explanation as his eagle owl flew off with a scroll of parchment. She nodded vaguely to the grounds beyond in return.

"You look different in daylight," Hermione mused, a smile playing at her lips.

"As do you," he agreed. "You're far less pale than I've grown used to."

"You're just as pale as I always believed," she replied. He laughed with a self-deprecating sort of shrug.

"That shouldn't come as a surprise," he said with something between a smirk and a smile. He trailed his fingers across the small of her back, resting his forehead against the side of her temple. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Hermione said, smiling as a gentle breeze whispered through the tower. "You?"

"Better than I can remember feeling in years," he murmured, staring at her.

Her heart fluttered at his words; a memory of the haunted wraith of a person he had been months before floated distantly through her mind.

"That's so good," Hermione breathed.

He nuzzled her neck for a moment before looking out the window once more. He leaned one arm on the opening, the other still playing absently about her back, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Hermione felt a shiver chase her spine as his fingers brushed her bare skin.

"It's as if a shade was cast over my mind for so long," he said with a long exhale, the words sounding pained. "And it's finally lifting away."

"You're starting to let go," Hermione said with a sidelong glance at him. His brow furrowed as he gazed unseeingly at the lake in the distance. "To forgive yourself." He shot her a look of consternation. "And that's _okay_ , you know."

"Right," he said, frowning. "Thank you. For everything."

She knew ' _everything_ ' was simultaneously too fine and too expansive to cover it. But she understood the sentiment innately.

"And you," she murmured, a vague smile on her face. Getting to know Malfoy had done more for her well-being than he knew. She thought there was a part of her that had grown to love his flaws and his dreadfully sharp edges.

The hand on her back shifted to her hip, drawing her closer. Hermione looked at him and he was gazing at her with an intensity she couldn't read.

He dropped his head and brushed his lips to her jaw, a ghost of a caress so soft she might have imagined it but for he pressed another beside it, turning to her. A breath caught in her throat and Hermione's eyelids fluttered as he cupped her face, trailing his lips across her skin and everywhere he touched sent shockwaves of molten energy racing through her blood.

She twisted her fingers in his pale blond hair as his lips met hers. A sharp intake of breath slipped her mouth, eyes almost instantly prickling with moisture. His teeth bit down on her lower lip and his tongue swept hers.

It wasn't gentle but carnal; the culmination of months of being so near, of wanting but refraining, and Hermione let go of that side of her that she had held in as she clutched him and he grasped her, crushing her against the lean lines of his body.

He kissed her, a man dying of thirst as his tongue clashed with hers and his lips claimed her skin and he caught her pulse with his teeth, drawing a whimper from some place within her soul.

"Hermione," he breathed, the utteration of her name falling from his lips like satin as he dropped kisses to her collarbone.

"I guess this is the part where you kiss me," she whispered, watching him through heavily lidded eyes, and she somehow found herself against a solid part of the wall.

"And ravage you," he agreed, sucking the flesh of her neck into his mouth.

"And –" she left the word hanging, swallowing.

"And fuck you into the wall," he breathed in her ear, adding a bite to the lobe.

"So hard I scream myself hoarse on your name, wasn't it?" she finished, hearing the waver in her own voice.

"That was it," he said with a low chuckle, meeting her gaze. "Merlin, I was out of my mind that night. But yet, I meant most of it."

She only said, heart racing, "not the wall."

He inclined his head, lips parted, intrigue dancing in his eyes. "Not the wall," he acquiesced. "Not _yet_."

Hermione trailed her fingers over his defined, yet masculine, cheekbone, searching his beautiful grey eyes. "Tonight."

"Okay," he said simply, his eyes feasting on her as he smirked and squeezed her arse. "I anticipate it highly, dear Granger."

* * *

Hermione exhaled a shaky breath as she pushed open the door to his piano room that night. Instantly the music washed over her as she crossed the demarcated line where his _silencio_ began.

That smile, that light in his eyes she waited all day to see, crossed his face as she slipped onto the bench beside him. Because the night, with all its darkness and moonlight, was theirs.

His fingers danced, flawlessly as ever, across the keys as he tilted his head in acknowledgement, a murmured "hi."

He finished the piece he was playing with a delicate flourish, his hands lingering over the keys as the last notes faded.

"Hello," she breathed in return, heart pounding furiously against her ribcage.

"I thought you might try playing this," he said, placing a sheet of music on the piano. His hand slid up her thigh, his grey eyes penetrating her own, but nothing else indicated what had occurred between them in the owlery.

"Okay," she nodded, swallowing. She looked at the sheets, understanding vaguely where to begin on the rudimentary piece.

Hesitantly she pressed the first few keys. It was a little beyond where her skill level was at but slowly she worked through it.

"Good," he murmured, sweeping her hair to her opposite shoulder. "Beautiful."

She didn't know to what he referred. He gripped her side, his fingers trailing up her ribs as he dropped a kiss to her collarbone.

Hermione froze, her fingers pausing mid-air as she glanced at him; he sucked at a delicate spot beneath the curve of her neck and it was enough to ignite her blood, her core clenching in anticipation. Goosebumps erupted across her skin.

"Play for me," he murmured into her throat.

Hermione forced herself to narrow in on the music even as the notes blurred together, while he continued his delicate, teasing torture. He kissed his way up her jaw, his hot breath in her ear causing her to squirm.

"Focus," he breathed, admonishing. "Sit forward."

She did as he asked, shifting forward to the front of the bench. He swung a leg around her so that his thighs framed hers, his chest pressed mercilessly against her back.

If she had found it difficult to concentrate before, it was nothing in comparison, with his fingers ghosting along her arms and her thighs.

One of his hands unbuttoned the soft cardigan she wore, playing with the hem of her top. He hummed in appreciation at the view he was afforded down the front of her shirt; a glimpse of her lacy bra and an alluring hint of cleavage.

The other hand drifted to the waist of her jeans, tantalizing, slipping the button free and dragging the zipper down.

Hermione grasped his knee for support when a hand slid into the front of her jeans, one finger flicking the sensitive bundle of nerves through her knickers.

"You aren't done your song, Granger," he scolded softly in her ear, even as his other hand came up to cup her breast, massaging it gently.

"Yes I am," she panted, as his fingers slipped inside her knickers. She could feel the smirk against her ear at how ready she was for him.

Malfoy withdrew both hands and carefully removed her cardigan, dropping light, teasing kisses to her throat. Hermione tried to move, to turn to him, but he held her firm. She sunk a hand into his hair, angling his face toward hers and his lips met hers easily.

A hand slid inside her bra, deftly tweaking the nipple and Hermione nearly whimpered into his mouth as he kissed her thoroughly, every stroke of his tongue on hers setting Hermione ablaze.

He pulled back, lifting the shirt over her head before attacking her again, harder this time, his restraint breaking.

He stood from the bench, bringing her with him and when he pulled away he simply gazed at her, his eyes smouldering softly as they met hers.

"You're fucking beautiful," he murmured, his brow furrowed. With a non-verbal wave of his wand, a desk along the far wall turned into a large bed. Glancing behind her, Hermione swallowed and he caught the movement. "You're sure?"

"Yes," she whispered.

As she stared at him, the air between them felt heavy, as if their need was a physical entity, pulsing in time to the desperate cadence of her heart.

Without a word of warning he scooped her up and dropped her onto the bed, climbing atop her. Hermione slipped the buttons of his shirt, pushing the fine material from his shoulders as he shrugged it off.

He removed her jeans, sitting back on his heels to drink her in, chunks of his pale, moonlit hair obscuring his eyes.

"Fucking beautiful," he repeated in the faintest whisper, to himself more than anything.

He dropped forward again, kissing her, their breaths mingling as he slid two fingers inside her, groaning aloud at the sensation.

"Draco," she breathed, his given name slipping her mouth as his thumb met that sensitive bundle of nerves. He hummed and kissed her harder, a hand in her hair as his other worked her over, teasingly.

Distractedly, Hermione reached for his trousers, pushing them from his hips and he shuddered when she grasped the hard length of him.

He drew back, his breath heavy and met her eyes. His stormy gaze was heated, glazed with lust, heavily-lidded as he stared at her.

Carefully, he removed the remaining material between them and Hermione held his gaze as she was bared to him, lit only by the faint moonlight.

She cried out as he sheathed himself fully, his breathing ragged as he buried his face in her shoulder. And as he began to move, she felt him, keenly, with every fibre of her being. In each thrust was absolution and redemption and she remembered when he was no more than a shell as his name ghosted her lips.

She clung to him, her nails scratching down his back and he loosed a low growl, pushing her ever nearer that glorious release as he held her and kissed her, her heart racing furiously toward that end. Time became nothing but a whisper as she felt only him.

And as she broke over him, cresting that wave of pleasure, he breathed her name, his own release finding him as well.

She lay in his arms afterwards, him drawing absent patterns on her bare skin as her breathing slowed and she gazed at him. He was everything she had ever wanted but never knew she needed.

He kissed her soundly on the lips, his grey eyes meeting hers as he drew back. He ran his fingertips along her lips, her cheekbones, the curve of her brow.

"Come with me to Hogsmeade tomorrow," he murmured. "I want to see you in the daylight."

"Are you sure?" she asked, a shallow breath held.

"Yes." He kissed her again. His expression grew heavy. "I was ruined when you found me that night, Hermione. I don't know where I'd be now if you hadn't. I want every part of you, if you'll have me."

Hermione blinked as his words washed over her. She knew, somehow, he had saved her, too. Through all those nights spent together, the good and the bad. The lessons and the firewhisky and the hours and hours spent talking.

"Absolutely," she breathed.

"Good." His eyes turned mischievous as he stared at her, his lips curving into a tantalizing smirk and as Hermione opened her mouth, he was gone beneath the covers and when his tongue grazed her inner thigh, her mouth promptly fell shut.

* * *

 _Four months later_

Hermione entwined her fingers with Draco's, defiantly, ignoring the glares and the scandalized whispers of the patrons along Diagon Alley's high street.

His hand sat loosely in hers, as if it didn't quite belong there, and some of his aristocratic swagger was missing as he returned the stares, his eyes dark.

Hermione merely stepped in closer, and when his eyes flickered to her, some of the heaviness in his brow lifted, and his hand clenched hers.

"Ignore them," Hermione breathed.

It was the first time either of them had been to Diagon Alley since they had left Hogwarts. Hermione couldn't tell if more people seemed angry at him for his involvement in the war – or at her, for her involvement with him. She didn't particularly care either way; they didn't know him as she had grown to.

"That could have been a lot worse," she said softly, looking up at him. He scoffed, but a hint of a smirk crossed his lips.

"I don't see how," he bit out, rolling his eyes. "Those two will never accept you being with me."

They had entered Diagon Alley following a tense and rather volatile lunch with Harry and Ron at the Leaky Cauldron. Ron had dropped numerous loathsome comments, while Harry had spent the duration glaring at Draco, his eyes narrowed and focused on every movement the blond made.

"They could have hexed you," Hermione said, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. "They'll come around. Once they get to know you better."

He released her hand, looping his arm casually around her back, his fingers squeezing her hip.

"Whatever you say," he murmured, visibly relaxing. He dropped a light kiss to her temple, ignoring the outraged gasp of a woman nearby. "I suppose the only opinion that really matters is yours."

"Right," Hermione breathed, reaching up to trace a hand across his face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And your mother's."

He barked out a laugh. "You'll have to meet her, next."

"I can't wait," Hermione said weakly.

But she had grown to trust him, with her mind, her body, her heart. She never could have imagined how well they fit together, how much they had grown to depend on one another.

"It'll be fine," he assured her with a grin. "She'll love you."

He had become her friend, her confidant, her lover. Her unexpected brightness in a dark and uncertain world.

"Not as much as _I_ love you, of course," he added quietly, dropping a brief kiss to her lips.

"I should hope not," Hermione said softly. She felt a smile tug at her lips. Absently she said, "or as much as I love _you_."

"Which is, of course, _far_ _less_ than my extreme affection for you," he said flippantly, breaking into a game they sometimes played. She stomped his foot and he lightly kicked her shin in return.

"Which pales in comparison to how greatly I am enamoured of you," she replied lightly.

"It could never be so," he said quietly, turning to her, his expression serious. "Because I didn't save you as you saved me."

Hermione just stared at him, her heart swelling. If only he knew.


End file.
